Sold
by UnsuaveOffTheMattress
Summary: Times are tough, but Dean has a plan. (Rating For: Angst, Sex, Everything Else Disturbing and Wrong) -mild wincest don't shoot I warned you- back and corrupt as ever
1. Chapter 1

_Hope you like it._

_Xx_

* * *

_One_

Dean creeps in early in the morning, early enough for it still to be dark and early enough for his brother to still be sound asleep. The door creaks, and as it starts to shut on its own, he holds it tight with his sticky fingers to keep it from slamming. The cold wind outside creeps in, and he shivers a little as it reaches his bare arms. He wonders briefly who he gave his jacket to, but there are so many possibilities. It's been a long night, and he's gotten around more than he'd planned to.

Dean closes the door quietly and leans his head against it, sighing heavily and squeezing the knob tightly. There's a sour taste in his mouth, one that he wishes he didn't have to taste to make end's meet. It didn't come about too long ago, and the gum in his mouth hasn't fully masked it, so he starts for the washroom parallel to him, hoping to, A, get the taste out of his mouth, and, B, take a shower, because he feels absolutely disgusting. Cold, sticky, and impure to a fault, he's just about had it. He hates it to say the very least, but not enough to find some other way to pay for dinner.

He reaches the washroom and closes the door hard behind him, locking it so that Sam can't get in. He starts the shower and turns the temperature as hot as it'll go, which isn't all that hot, not hot enough to wash this horrendous feeling away. A heavy sigh escapes him as he looks in the mirror. His shirt is no more than a thin white undershirt, stretched and stained and torn in places from those who get nasty and physical. Physical, oh how the bruises on his cheekbones remind him of them. "You into that?" The girls always ask-the boys don't. The boys just throw him down and get at him. It's the boys who leave all the bruises, the cuts, the bite marks, the carpet burn. He thinks about it and leans against the counter, exhaling deep and thinking about how soap will never be able to wash this off. Band-Aids will never be able to cover this up, and no matter how hard he tries, lying will never block this out. He knows he'll never forget it. He'll always feel this dirty, this wrong.

Nonetheless, he strips himself of his thin shirt and too-tight stained jeans. He throws them carelessly onto the linoleum and steps under the water. It's lukewarm at best, seeing as these motels keep getting sketchier and sketchier the less money they have. The bars of soap are faded, and he makes a mental note to get better bottles at what ever drug store he found himself behind an hour ago. He'll do that first, and then get somewhere less dusty and that smells less like pot. He pauses. It isn't the room that smells like pot. It's him. '_Soap,' _he reminds himself. '_Get better soap.'_

_XX_

* * *

_Italics…._


	2. Chapter 2

_All my friends hate me._

_Here's a chapter._

_Xx_

* * *

_Two_

Sam is awake when Dean gets out of the shower, blinking sleepily at the first specks of light pouring in from the sub-par curtains.

Dean can't help but smile at him, seeing how messy his hair is and how glassy his eyes are. "Hey," he says, thrilled so see a face that he actually knows.

"Hey," Sam returns, rubbing his eyes. "You're up early."

He nods in return. "I was in the shower."

Sam pauses, his brother's tone rushed and his actions as he gestures to the washroom forced. "Congratulations?"

"Thanks," he watches as Sam gets up, as he starts to leaf through his bag for some clothes. "But, um, we need better soap."

He pauses again. "Okay. And?"

"And I want your input, so once you get dressed, will you come with me to get some?"

Sam shrugs. "I guess."

Dean's smile widens a little, and as he nods, he runs a hand through his short, soaking wet hair. He doesn't really want his brother's input. He could care less, honestly, but what he does want is protection from god knows who he'll see. If they remember him, they'll know that they can get to him easily, and probably get something without having to pay, but if Sam is there looking as intimidating as he does and being as big as he is, they'll back off, especially is Dean keeps close, if he tries to hide. "Whenever you're ready, just let me-"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, stripping himself of one shirt and pulling on another. "Where are you getting the money for soap?"

He shrugs, too tired to remember the bullshit excuse he thought up in the shower. "Poker," he says, his voice lined with a faint question.

Sam nods sarcastically. "Must be some hardcore poker, with those bruises."

"Yeah," he nervously laughs. "Chicago, y'know. Tough city."

"Mm-hmm," Sam tightens his belt and studies his brother up and down. "Is that my shirt?" he asks.

Dean glances down at the too-big white fabric practically falling off of his ever-shrinking middle. "We need to do laundry."

For a few seconds, Sam simply stares at him, noticing how he shakes nervously and rubs his hands together anxiously. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean lies, in actuality hungry and dirty and exhausted. "Just a little tired."

* * *

The parking lot is almost empty with how early it is, the only people in it tourists and bitter office workers rushing to get into the city on time. Dean studies it for a moment, leaning against the door of the car. He breathes in the chilly March air, immune almost to the smell of drugs and hot diesel engines. His nose tingles a little from how cold it is, but his shoulders don't shiver at all in Sam's jacket, the one he always keeps in the car for times when Dean forgets—"_forgets"_—his. "I'll give it back." Dean lies, so guilty and tired that he's barely himself at all. "Once I play enough poker to get us some quarters for the laundry."

Sam nods and rubs his eyes, trusting his brother enough to believe him though he lies straight through his teeth.

"You didn't sleep that much." Dean says, looking over at Sam. "Did you?"

"No," Sam returns. "I was busy trying to find you."

Dean pauses. "Where did you look?"

Sam pauses too, eyeing Dean skeptically. "In the room?" he says, to which Dean nods. "Why?"

"No reason," he shrugs, still surveying the parking lot. "Just…" Dean trails off, meeting the gaze of a rather brutal client from the night before. He remembers everything so clearly, and cringes as he does, this man's faded and half slurred voice still ringing in his ears.

"Oh, aren't you a pretty one?" he asked, putting his hands on Dean's waist.

Dean smiled sweetly, biting down on his lower lip and averting his gaze to the pavement. "I dunno about that." He said, faking it so well that it never even registered as the smallest big unnatural.

"Boys like you shouldn't be out this late." Nicotine stained fingers gently took hold of his chin, and as much as he hated the rough texture against the skin he just shaved in some horrendous convenience store washroom to look that much sweeter, he masked it, making his eyes a little bigger. "Don't you think?"

He nodded, looking like a scared little kid with those big green eyes and cherry red cheeks.

"If you need a ride home…" this stranger motioned to a dingy pickup truck, its color a mystery in the next to no light it was parked in. He matched his truck, in a sense, messy, faded, dusted with a white powder that Dean safely assumed wasn't dust. "I might be able to help you out."

Dean smiled, raising his eyebrows slightly to give away the fact that this was all just an act. "I'd like that." He said, keeping his voice small and in character.

"So would I."

Now, standing in that parking lot with Sam, his expression grows sour as he continues to think back to how those sandpapery hands felt on his bare skin and how he barely managed to get out in one piece once it all was done. He remembers how things got violent, how not a minute in, he found himself bleeding as he laid on his chest across the back seat. He remembers coughing hard into his hand, only to have it be torn away and held behind him just after it became soaked with this thick, sticky mess that poured generously from his mouth.

"Hold still," his client told him as he slid Dean's jeans down his legs. "You've done this before."

He never expected it to go that far, and never expected it to get to the point of bruised wrists and swollen lips, but it wasn't anything new, anything he couldn't handle, and it certainly wasn't something he couldn't cover up as a card game scrap.

Dean pulls his sleeves over his hands and nudges Sam to urge him along.

The man, the client, sparks a conversation with Dean as he starts to walk away. "You'll be walking alright soon enough, baby doll!"

He takes a full hold of Sam's arm as he walks a little faster.

"Don't push yourself, now!"

"Dean!" Sam pulls back once they get inside, keeping his voice hushed. "What's he talking about?"

Dean shakes his head and starts down the first isle, feeling so dirty and so remorseful that he doesn't want anything to do with it.

Sam follows him, sighting heavy. "Dean, talk to me!"

"Shh," he returns, stopping before shelves upon shelves of soap. "Calm down, Sam."

"No," Sam takes his arms tight, turning him around. "Dean, this happens everywhere."

"It doesn't happen-"

"Yeah," Sam interrupts. "It does, and if you don't stop fighting everyone who looks at you funny you're never gonna build a reputation around here."

Fighting. Dean loves how gullible his brother remains.

"I don't wanna see you get kicked around all the time, okay?"

Dean pushes him off. "It doesn't matter." He says. "I mean, it's not like we're gonna be here that much longer."

Sam rolls his eyes. "How are we gonna get out?" He asks. "I mean, it's not like we have any money."

"I'm working on it." Dean mutters, turning back to the shelves.

"No, Dean," Sam says. "You're blowing all our money on drugs and soap."

"When did I ever do drugs, Sam?"

"You tell me." Sam pushes his brother's arm. "You smell like pot."

Dean glances over at him. "And you know what that smells like?"

"Dean," he sighs.

"'_Dean'_ me again, I dare you."

An even more bitter expression grows on him. "I'll be in the car." He grumbles, turning.

"No you won't," Dean takes his arm and turns him back around. "Not with them out there, Sam."

"I think I can handle it."

"Sam-"

"'_Sam'_ me again, I dare you."

"You're a bitch, Sam. You know that?"

"Yeah, and you're moody."

Dean looks down at the bar of soap in his hands.

"What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing." He mutters.

"Dean, talk to me!"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm just tired, okay?"

Sam shakes his head. "You're not like this when you're tired." He says. "You're not shy and then bitter and then sentimental about a bar of soap."

"Who said I was sentimental about it?"

"I did," Sam takes the soap from Dean's hands. "Now stop cradling it like it's a child."

"Don't take it." He says, all this talk about being tired making him that much more tired. "I need it."

"You need to tell me why you're acting this way!"

Dean sighs heavily. "I'm tired, Sam! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"We just went over this! You're different when you're tired!"

"Well then I'm really tired!" he takes the soap and starts for the counter, briefly making sure he has a few dollars in his pocket. "You happy now?"

Xx


	3. Chapter 3

_Three_

Sam throws the plastic bag down on the wrinkled comforter atop his creaky mattress in a careless and borderline ungrateful manner. Dean watches him, confused and, in a sense, hurt. His eyes, though faded and tired beyond belief, have to them the guilt and devastation that comes along with rejection this common. He tries to apologize, but Sam just shakes his head. "What do you have to be sorry for?" He asks, letting his jacket fall to the floor. "I mean, you didn't really do anything."

"If I didn't do anything then why won't you talk to me?"

"I am talking to you." Sam argues. "If you're so tired that you can't realize that-"

"I don't mean right now, Sam." His voice shakes a little, like he's about to lose it completely. "I mean in general, like," he brushes a few tears from his cheeks, so exhausted and confused that it's making him emotional. "Like, what did I do to change this?"

"I dunno," He returns sarcastically. "Nothing, considering you haven't been here."

"Sam, I'm serious."

"Me too!" he says. "Where the fuck have you been?!"

Dean sighs heavy and puts his hands over his face.

"And don't you give me some bullshit excuse, Dean!"

He doesn't respond, remaining completely motionless.

Sam pauses, then takes his brother's arms and pulls them down to look at his face. "Talk to me!" Sam strikes his brother hard, harder than intended, but Dean doesn't react all that much. He's so used to getting pushed around and screamed at that he's pretty much immune to it at this point. Sam knows, he can tell by the bruises, but hits Dean anyway, pushing him to the floor and taking out all that anger with his hands. "I am so sick of you!" He yells, punching and hitting as Dean lays unresponsive on the carpet, face down to avoid eye contact. Sam takes his shoulders tight and turns him over, breathing heavily and having a borderline viscous expression. He puts a knee on either side of Dean and pins him down, feeling like he's about to completely lose it. "What aren't you telling me?!" It's almost a sob at that point, and his grip grows tighter and tighter on Dean's shirt the longer he stares at him. "Just talk to me!"

Dean looks up at him, fighting that smirk that's grown to be a reflex when he's in this position. He can't help but think back to what he's done, in a more vulgar sense, who he's done, like this, but as him mind starts to drift back to truck drivers and potheads in odd parking lots, Sam hits him again, harder, and snaps him out of it.

"Talk to me!" He repeats, then fully in tears.

Dean shakes his head in return, but doesn't say anything, too tired to think of a half decent lie.

"Ple-ease!" Sam collapses atop him a complete mess, paying no attention to how awkward it may seem. He continues to hold the fabric of Dean's shirt, pulling, then. "Just talk to me!"

* * *

****_Xx_


	4. Chapter 4

Insanity, Generic Curtains, Mild Mild _Mild _Wincest. Enjoy-

Xx

* * *

_Four_

Dean gets up to go, but Sam holds tightly onto him, tugging at his shirt with enough strength to keep him from budging in the slightest. "Sammy," he sighs, pulling those tight fists from his clothes. "I need to-"

Sam pushes him hard against the floor. "No," he says, towering over his brother as he gets up on his knees. "No, you don't need to."

He sits up and looks at Sam, barely feeling the weight on his lap. He's numb, completely numb, physically, emotionally, etc. "I need to go." he repeats, to which Sam shakes his head.

"Don't go." he says, putting his hands on either side of his brother's jawline. The lazy and thicker than usual stubble rubs against his palms, and the fact that it's so prominent hurts almost as much as that dead stare hurts. He knows Dean is just trying to help, but, like usual, he's gone way too far, and seems to be literally killing himself in the process. "Please don't go."

Dean sighs heavily.

"Go wherever you're going tomorrow, just stay here with me right now."

"I can't stay." He says simply, taking Sam's hands and pushing them back. "But I'll be back-"

Sam tugs his hands back, puts them back where they were, and pulls Dean in, kissing him hard. Dean starts to resist, to pull back, but Sam won't let him. He's so big and strong and persistent. Dean keeps his hands on the back of Sam's, his fingernails cutting into the soft flesh, but it doesn't make that much of a difference. Sam doesn't notice in the least, only holds him tighter, tighter, tight enough to leave bruises, it feels like. He lets out a faint moan in objection, but it's barely a sound at all, and something sounding more of pleasure than protest. He can't control it anymore, that's the only sound he can make in this situation. It's like he's trained himself to fake it so well that all he can do is fake it. There's no saying no anymore. There's no resisting anymore. He just takes it. He takes what ever comes to him and doesn't question it anymore, like a trained whore.

Dean snaps and forces himself back, standing abruptly on knees that threaten to buckle under him. His eyes convey sheer terror as they watch Sam on the floor. He breathes heavy, so scared of becoming this toy, this machine, this doll. Sam watches him as he clings to the curtains, and stands slowly, questioning him as to what's wrong. Dean grips the nearly sheer white fabric falling lazily over the windows and stares at his brother with huge eyes.

"Dean?"

"I'm not a toy." he returns.

Sam's expression turns to question. "You're not..." he pauses. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm not..." he trails off, staring at the carpet. "I'm not a toy, that's not what I want."

Hesitantly, Sam gets closer to him, debating whether or not to touch him. "Dean?"

He shakes his head, still looking at the floor. "I'm not-"

"You're not," Sam agrees, slowly reaching out and taking his arm. "You're just tired."

Dean quickly looks up at him, his eyes so big and scared that it makes Sam jump a little bit. "I'm not a toy." He repeats.

"You're tired." Sam repeats. "You need to get some sleep."

"No," Dean argues as his brother starts to pull him across the room back to his bed. He continues to cling to the curtains, then at the bottom of them, holding onto the tag from some overstock fabric company like it's a lifeline. "I have to go."

"To bed." Sam tells him. "That's the only place you have to go."

"No," Dean argues. "I have to go and..." he pauses, catching himself before saying anything aloud. _I have to go and be somebody's toy._

_Xx_

* * *

_dean u ok_


	5. Chapter 5

_Five_

"Aren't you a pretty little toy?" An unfamiliar voice asks, so gritty and wasted that Dean literally feels sick. Its owner is hidden mostly by darkness, only the big outline visible in the artificial light of a street lamp just outside the window of this dingy but nicer than his motel room. All he can taste is smoke, cigarette smoke, smoke from a cigarette that wasn't even his. It's secondhand, transferred from this slimy and gritty-voiced tongue onto his, which is growing numb like the rest of him. He hurts all over, so jaded and torn up that he can barely process anything. He should've stayed with Sam, gotten some sleep, gotten a little bit better before heading out but he didn't. Instead he ran right out of that room and flew almost to that drugstore parking lot. He spent the day with the really desperate ones, the ones on lunch breaks and between meetings just looking for a little pick me up, and then started to get down to real business once it got dark. He's lost count of how many different strangers have violated him today, but that doesn't bother him as much as it should, seeing as he's also lost count of how much money he's made.

Damn. He tells himself. Come out during the day more often. It's less surreptitious and gets him more dirty looks than he'd like but god, they tip so much better.

He should've gone back to Sam after that, before the druggies came out, but he didn't, figuring he still had a little left in him. He found some druggies and let them do what ever. He found some regulars and let them do what ever. And then he found this guy, whose stamina is off the charts and whose build is absolutely insane. Dean didn't mind someone this size at first, enjoyed it for a while even, but that all ended around midnight, because then his batteries were almost dead, and he really needed to get back to Sam. That was midnight.

That was two hours ago.

"You're a quiet one, though."

He keeps staring past this figure, out the window, trying not to focus on how horrible he feels.

"You are just quiet, right?" There's a pause. "Like, you're not dead, are you?"

Dean stays silent, too beat to process it enough to respond.

"Oh man," this guy, whoever he is, pulls back and reaches for the bedside table lamp.

"Did I just kill a hooker?"

He squints as light floods the room, but doesn't move otherwise.

A look of terror greets him as his pupils adjust. He doesn't take the time to register it, though. "I'm gonna take you home, okay?"

Dean nods and slowly sits up, barely conscious as this point.

"Assuming you don't need an ambulance."

"I'm okay," Dean mutters, lazily pulling his clothes back on. "Just a little..." His words flee abruptly, and his hands start to shake.

"A little...?"

"Tired." His words don't come out the way he thinks they do, all of the letters strung together into an incoherent mess. "I'm just tired."

"Dude, you should lie back down."

He shakes his head, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm good."

"No no no," he's starting to panic a little, taking Dean's shoulders in his huge, nicotine stained hands and pushing him back to the mattress. "No, you need to lie back down."

"I need to go." He argues, completely oblivious to the worsening shaking starting up his arms. It's all stress and sleep deprivation that's throwing him off, that and the fact that he's barely eaten in weeks. It's a bad scene overall, but it has an easy solution, and part of him knows that—the part that's trying to get back to Sam. "I really need to..."

"Dude, you're slurring like a bitch."

He doesn't bother responding to that.

"I'm gonna call 911, you're having some kind of seizure or something."

Dean shakes his head. "It's okay." He tries, reaching for the phone.

"Sit still, bro." He pushes Dean's. hand down awkwardly. "I'm not gonna tell em that we- yeah, I need an ambulance, like now."

Dean puts his hand down and closes his eyes, knowing it's too late for him.

"No, I just found this kid in a parking lot. I don't know what happened to him."

He looks up as a hand shakes him desperately.

"He's inside now, we're in a motel room, but he's not looking too good, I just need an ambulance."

Everything is spinning, and Dean can feel himself shaking.

"Hey," the phone hangs up. "Your money is in your pocket, okay?"

"Mkay,"

"Hit me up when you're not dying and I'll give you some more business."

Dean can't help but smile a little as he feels a pen scribbling numbers on his left palm.

"But make sure you're not dying because this is pretty fucked up."

"Mkay," he repeats, dozing off as the door slams and the room goes quiet. "Mkay..."

And he's completely out.

* * *

_AWKWARD_


	6. Chapter 6

Let's just pretend that I went on hiatus for more than a week so that I seem cooler.

I just can't stay away from yooooooooou!

xx

_Six_

The door opens, creaking as it does, and Dean sits up on that ramshackle mattress, the sheets pulled up over his legs. He's been alone in this room for about ten minutes, and has taken that time to pull himself together enough to convince the medical officials coming for him that he's alright, that he needs to go back to his brother, and not to an emergency room. He used his shirt to get the excess blood off and pulled his jacket, which is actually Sam's jacket back on to hide all the bruises and swelling.

_They won't notice_. He thought. _I'll be fine_. He thought.

And then he stood up, and realized that he'd thought entirely wrong.

Dean fell to the floor hard and gripped the carpet tight, his muscles worn down and his skin near blackened with bruises. He coughed and shook hard, this immensely sick feeling overwhelming him. They took him by his arms and pulled him to his feet, only to sit him down half a second later.

"It's okay," he argued as they tried to push him to lie down. "I'm okay, I just need to go home."

They refused to let him leave over and over again, but he pushed hard, never bringing up the monetary issue though. That wouldn't make a difference to them, so he left it out, but hoped that after a while he'd get annoying enough for them to let him go.

"I'm _okay_," he said it over and over again, always with this tone of persuasion, never annoyance, though he felt it. "Just let me _go._"

They refused continuously, and he pushed continuously, the rope being pulled back and forth like a game until they finally let him go, and when they did he ran as fast as he could, and finds himself now knocking repetitively and calling for Sam to open the door to their room. Dean hears him stumbling across the carpet and then the door creaks open, revealing a messy, exhausted Sam. "Hey," Dean exhales, still trying to catch his breath. "I didn't..." he trails off, motioning almost frantically with his hands as he tries to cover up his not having a key. "...uh..."

"Shut up," Sam pulls him inside and closes the door, rubbing his eyes. "You left your key on the table."

"Right," he laughs. "That's it. Sorry, I just...kinda..."

Sam gives him a questioning look.

"I kinda blanked."

"Yeah, okay."

Dean continues to breathe heavy, but tries to pass it off as a yawn. "It's late." he says, glancing over at one of the analog clocks in the faint light. "You should go back to bed."

He nods. "You should tell me where you've been."

Dean backs away as his brother gets closer, wanting anything other than to be touched even in the slightest.

"And why you look like a murder victim."

"I'll tell you in the morning." he tries.

"No," Sam returns, getting closer and closer as Dean gets farther and farther. "You'll tell me now."

Dean feels threatened slightly, knowing he's too sore and tired and cold to put up a decent fight. "Or what?" he asks, defensive nonetheless.

"Or I'll make it worse, now tell me."

Dean pauses, his expression toughening with a false armor. "No."

Sam reaches out to grab his arms, to throw him back against the wall, but before he can get a decent grip Dean's armor shatters.

"Fine!" he pulls back abruptly, so sickened by the thought of another pair of hands on him that he could drop dead. "Fine, I'll tell you."

With a tinge of confusion Sam puts his arms down, puzzled at how easy it's becoming to crack him. "Okay,"

Dean exhales deep as he rakes through his mind for an excuse, finally having caught his breath that much. "But before I tell you, you have to promise me that you won't think any less of me because of it."

"Uh," Sam returns. "I promise...?"

"So, I've kind of been making a living off of..."

xx

My hiatus (which was definitely longer than a week pshh I'm so cool) thankfully did not change my view on cliffhangers being amazing.


	7. Chapter 7

Short chapter. Sorry.

Seven

He coughs hard and crumples to the floor, falling down onto the carpet a sore and vulnerable mess as bright red starts down his chin. Sam starts for him, but stops as he's about to pick him up, seeing how he pulls his arms close to his middle as if to disappear. It's a new fear, a sort of shell shock that makes him contract, pull back and get as small as possible to avoid being touched. That narrows down Sam's options, but just as he's coming to a conclusion Dean comes out, and almost sobs as he says, "I'm a whore!"  
Sam pauses, simply staring at the blood seeping in between Dean's fingers. "You're a what?"  
He spits into his palms, the metallic taste appalling. "I sleep with people for money."  
He pauses again "...why?"  
"Because there's nothing else I can do, Sam." He sounds like he's in tears, but dehydration prohibits them from actually forming. "I mean, it's not like we're gonna be here long enough-" Dean coughs hard, and at the same time lets out this god forsaken sound of sheer agony that makes Sam weak in the knees.  
"Dude," his voice is breathy, like he too is falling apart. "Dean, you need some help."  
He shakes his head in return, putting a hand out as Sam gets closer to him. "I'm not..." He spits again into his other palm. "I'm not going anywhere."  
"Dean-"  
"No," he interrupts. "I'm not going anywhere."  
"Dean, you need help. It's not an option."  
He pulls away as Sam takes his arms, jerking back with so much force that it's almost frightening.  
"Dean!" Sam shouts.  
"I'll be fine." Dean returns, his palms shaking and his knees wobbling. "I just need some sleep."  
"You need a doctor!" Sam pushes. "You're coughing up blood!"  
Dean brushes the red from his lips with his arm and returns his palm to a few inches below his chin just in case. "It's fine," he says. "I've got a ton of cuts. It's just that."  
Sam exhales deep, staring at him, watching as he shakes and breathes heavy.  
"I'm just gonna..." He motions towards the washroom, and then starts for it unsteadily. "I'm gonna get some sleep after this."  
Awestruck, Sam watches him close the door. He's had theories as to how Dean gets paid, but never expected him to break so easily. He can tell that something's wrong, that it goes beyond something physical, and Dean could be hiding something more than this. It's stressful to think about what he doesn't know, and even more stressful to think about how he'll eventually find out. It's all so Turing and stressful, so Sam crawls back into bed and lies there until the water turns off and the bed next to him creaks with the constantly lessening weight of his brother. Dean breathes deep, so disgusted with himself that Sam can feel it too. "I'm gonna fix this." Sam tells him. "The second I wake up I'm gonna fix this."  
Dean looks over at him in the extremely faint light, wanting to have some kind of response that isn't completely self-centered, but too exhausted to think beyond himself. He nods slightly. "Good luck."  
XX


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

Sunlight pours in in streaks through the dusty curtains, settling on that lump that's been motionless under the covers for at least twelve hours. He's hidden himself almost completely, only the tips of his fingers sticking out. It's comforting, him getting sleep, seeing as it's been a while, but it's also a bit unsettling, seeing as he's only slept this much once or twice in his entire twenty-seven years. Sam wants to let him sleep, to let his body take care of itself, but no matter how bad he wants that, he wants to throw his brother into the car and get him tested for everything under the sun before he even has the chance to argue. The damage is hard, and even though they both know that sleep and protein will take care of most of it, they won't take care of everything, examples being broken bones and STDs.  
Sam has watched Dean sleep for a few hours now, pretending that he's not worried sick to keep himself under control. He glances at the clock impatiently—2:32 PM. It's been long enough.  
"Hey," he starts, pulling the sheets down slowly so as not to startle Dean too much. "Hey, it's pretty late. You should..." He trails off, seeing that the bruises are a hundred times worse than they were. Hell, twelve hours ago he didn't even have bruises, or any trances of them, on his face. "...Dean?"  
Dean squints as he looks up, moving his hands to rub his eyes.  
"What happened to you?"  
He stretches upward slightly and mutters a faint, "I dunno," through mass amounts of swelling in and around his mouth. A sick feeling has settled in his stomach, one that tempts him to get out of bed and collapse onto the washroom floor. It's in his head, too, like one of those headaches that comes along with a fever. His limbs are sore and his chest is congested, so needless to say, he feels pretty bad with all these cuts and bruises. "It's a tough gig."  
Sam pulls the sheets the rest of the way down, exposing Dean's bare and bruised chest and swollen ankles where his flannel sleep pants have come up. "You look like a car crash victim or something."  
He pushes Sam away as he starts to touch, still so disgusted at the concept human interaction that he won't even put up with his brother. "Like I said," his speech is off slightly, his tongue oddly puffy. "It's a tough gig, and people are into some really fucked up-"  
"C'mere," Sam interrupts, pulling Dean to sit up so that he can look at the rest of the damage. "I'm not gonna touch anything, just let me see."  
Defensively, Dean pushes him back. "Why?" He asks, to which Sam rolls his eyes.  
"I don't know if you're-"  
"I'm fine."  
Sam looks him up and down, seeing how he holds his arms out to keep him away.  
"I'm fine, I just overdid it a little."  
"A little," Sam says with a touch of skepticism. "Because sixteen hours of nonstop torture sex with strangers isn't that big a deal."  
He pushes the sheets towards Sam and stands up awkwardly. "Not when you're protected."  
Sam watches him as he pulls on a shirt, seeing how he shakes slightly.  
"Or when you're trying to get away from incest."  
Sam sighs in return. "Shut up."  
Dean turns to look at him, the light grey fabric he pulled on falling off his shoulders. "What was that anyway?"  
"What?"  
He tugs his sleeves up from where they've fallen onto his arms. "When you attacked me yesterday." He says. "What was that?"  
He shrugs a little.  
"I mean, I don't mind you, but-"  
"It wasn't like that." He interrupts. "It wasn't a sexual thing, I just..." Sam trails off, slightly uncomfortable with the thought. He wants to let it go, but Dean waits for him to continue. "...I was just worried about you."  
"So you kissed me?"  
"Dean-"  
"Totally makes sense." Sarcasm drips from his words, though it would be more genuine were he better able to speak.  
Sam looks at him uncomfortably, having been dissatisfied with his actions the second he committed them. "Sorry,"  
He shakes his head slightly. "Just don't do it again."  
"I thought you didn't mind me."  
"I don't," he returns. "I just don't want to put you at risk."  
Sam pauses. "Risk of what?"  
Dean averts his gaze, studying the dusty bedside table to avoid his brother's accusatory expression.  
"Dean," worry laces his voice, making it a touch shaky. "Risk of what?"  
He exhales deep, tugging the bottom of his shirt down. "Never mind."  
"No," he reaches for Dean's shoulders, only to have him step back and look up with this lethal expression. "Talk to me."  
He shakes his head and starts for the door.  
"No," Sam repeats. "No no no, Dean-"  
He throws the door open and then pulls it behind him after clearing it.  
"Dean!" Sam follows him, already hearing car doors. "Dean, stop!" He catches Dean as he stands beside his car and holds him tight against the frame of the driver's side door he tugged open. Dean pushes at him, screams at him to let go and tugs back as hard as he can, someone else's hands against his arms making his skin crawl all over. "Talk to me." Sam tells him, gripping his arms tight enough to more than likely leave more bruises, not that it's too challenging anymore.  
"Stop touching me!" Dean continues to tug at him, unable to care less about the differences in size and strength.  
"Not until you-"  
"I'll talk to you!" He shrieks. "Just let go!"  
Sam can't help but let him ago, the amount of hysteria in his voice frightening to say the least. His armor is cracked. He's lost it.  
"I'll tell you what ever you want." He crosses his arms and sits down in his car. "Just don't touch me."  
Sam looks down at him, stunned, in a sense, at how brutal it's gotten. It's like he gets worse, more bruised and more swollen every second. Just when he thinks it can't get worse, it does. "Why can't I touch you?"  
"Why would you want to?"  
"Answer my question."  
"Answer mine."  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean-"  
"I hope you know how many people have touched me recently." He says. "And everything they did and how bad it hurts."  
"I wouldn't do that."  
"I know," he pulls his knees up slightly. "But it still hurts."  
Sam gets a little closer to him, moving slowly to build up some trust. "What hurts?"  
Dean backs up slightly, moving across the bench seat towards the other door. "Everything."  
He continues to get closer, sitting down once Dean pulls back enough. "Do you think you should get checked out?"  
"Probably," he leans all the way against the door and pulls his knees all the way to his chest. "But I've already turned down some paramedics."  
Sam pauses. "Why?"  
He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."  
"Oh," Sam looks over him again, studying him closely. "Well, I could take you if you're up for it."  
Dean groans slightly in return.  
"You really should go." He says. "Make sure you don't have anything."  
"You think I have something?"  
Sam shrugs. "No, but-"  
"I think I do." He confesses, his hands shaking as he grips his shirt. "And I really should get tested, just-"  
"Just get it over with." Sam tells him, already reaching for the keys strangely in his pocket. "I'll be right there. It'll be fine."  
He breathes in deep, looking away with eyes that look like they're tearing up.  
"What?"  
He puts his hands together and squeezes tight.  
"Dean?"  
He looks down. "I don't want the bad news."  
"There might not be bad news." Sam tries. "If you've been protected-"  
He puts his head down in his hands and falls apart completely.  
"Uh-"  
"They're gonna know I'm a whore!" He sobs.  
"Not if you don't-"  
"They're gonna assume, they're gonna be like how'd you get so sick? Who did this to you? Why do you smell like a hundred different colognes? And I'll have to tell them why and they'll call me a who-ore!"  
Sam puts the keys on the seat and turns towards his brother. "You don't have to tell them anything." He says. "Just get in, get tested, and get out."  
"It's not that easy-y!"  
"Sure it is."  
He coughs hard, too overwhelmed to breathe almost.  
Sam watches him, waiting for him to calm down before trying to talk to him again.  
He stops coughing, starts to catch his breath, but Sam doesn't say anything.  
"What am I doing to myself?" Dean asks through heavy breaths as he looks up at Sam.  
"Is that a trick question?" Sam asks.  
Dean sighs and leans against the window, finally starting to simmer down. "It's not even about money anymore."  
He pauses. "What's it about?"  
He shakes his head, sitting back up and fastening his seatbelt. "Let's just go."  
Sam watches him closely, trying to imagine what could have possibly shaken him up this badly. The bruises, he can understand, but Dean is a mess, and acts completely unlike himself. Someone or even something must have really impacted him, because right now this is terrifying.  
"Sam!" He snaps, to which Sam quickly takes the keys from the seat. "It was your idea, let's fucking go!"


	9. Chapter 9

I was told by a counselor to stop writing for health reasons but I said no and wrote you this chapter because I can't live without you.

* * *

_Nine_

He sits awkwardly on a cold, unusually hard examination table, stripped above the waist and shivering immensely. The room is a grayish blue, a dull one that makes him look deathly pale and feel completely empty. There's a desk and a few cabinets to his left, all so dark that they're almost black. Tongue depressors sit atop the small corner desk in a glass jar, and around them are various subpar pieces of equipment, all of which have touched him at least once in the last two hours of sitting here. There's a blanket over his legs, but it doesn't do much in the way of heat, just kind of sits there like a sandpapery decoration.  
His fever runs fairly high, around 103, just as it has been since he woke up, which when paired with this immense soreness and overwhelming lightheadedness is enough to give him an excuse as to acting so poorly. He feels little remorse towards his actions, too caught up in absorbing all this information to think about anything else.  
"You'll be okay," they told him. "But..."  
And then they rattled off a hundred different things wrong with him, ninety-nine of which he can't remember. Those ninety-nine were uneventful, all consisting of, "keep an eye on this," "put ice on this," and "eat something and this will go away." But the last really stuck out to him, caught his attention, and terrified him to the point of keeping him completely silent, a miraculous and bittersweet concept.  
"What'd they say?" Sam asks as he throws open the heavy door.  
Dean glances up at him briefly, only to glance back down without saying a word. His eyes are dull, conveying an apathy so heavy that it's almost sickening. "Nothing,"  
"Really," Sam pushes, the suspense of having to stand outside making him as wound up as he can get. "Tell me."  
"Nothing," Dean repeats, his tone a bit more harsh. "They didn't say anything."  
Sam sighs heavily. "Dean-"  
"If you really wanna know, ask them, okay!"  
There's a brief silence, one that they use to get a good look at each other. Dean looks away first, unsurprisingly, and casts his gaze downward as if to avoid being seen.  
"Sorry," he mutters, to which Sam glances away, awkwardly down at the linoleum floor.  
"It's fine," he mutters, his eyes then drifting back to Dean, who looks so shaky and bruised that he's barely recognizable. Sam can't imagine the pressure, how it hurts both physically and mentally, especially if there truly is something wrong, so he kindly keeps from touching despite how badly he wants to take Dean in his arms and squeeze him tight until it's all better. "If you're uncomfortable, then-"  
"They're making arrangements to send me somewhere tonight."  
Sam pauses, puzzled at Dean's habit of letting things slip out like he doesn't care.  
"Like, somewhere with people who will dig and dig until I completely fess up."  
"Why would they do that?" San speaks so quickly after him that it's almost an interruption.  
Dean looks at him as if he's oblivious.  
"People sleep around all the time." He leans against the table and moves in close, his right hand barely an inch from his brother's leg. "It's pretty much an occupation."  
"Yeah, but-"  
"Is it because you're a guy?"  
"No-"  
"Is it because you have an STD?"  
"Sam-"  
"Do you have an STD?"  
"No!" His voice raises, only to fall back down a second later. "No, I'm fine down there, but I haven't eaten in, like, five days."  
Sam backs up slightly, having known of course, but just now making the connection. "Dude,"  
"And it's not because I haven't had time."

XX

* * *

*hugs all of you and whispers creepy things*


	10. Chapter 10

I know this took forever, and I'm sorry.

* * *

_Ten_

Indifference overwhelms his expression as he leans on his hand. He studies the bright white wall to avoid eye contact with an older woman with yellow hair and a pale blue suit. She sits opposite him and continues to throw questions at him though he doesn't acknowledge any of them.  
"Okay," she starts, her voice thin and somewhat whiny. Dean sighs heavy and drops his hand, sitting up in his hard plastic chair and looking at her after exasperatedly rolling his eyes. Her eyes are tired, dark underneath in great contrast to her strikingly pale skin. She's bigger, and Dean guesses her age to be around forty-five, maybe fifty. "You're gonna need to start talking."  
He fidgets uncomfortably in return, soreness seeping through as the morphine starts to wear off. "I don't even know why I'm here." He mutters.  
"What's that?" She asks, to which Dean sighs heavily.  
"Nothing."  
"No," she argues. "What did you say?"  
"Nothing." He repeats louder, looking towards the window. The blinds have already been pulled, him having stared out at the leafless trees for hours to avoid conversation.  
She continues to watch him, noting how his hands shake slightly and how the bruises make such contrast to the icy pale he's become. Though she doesn't know him, she can assume that he's not usually like this, that he's got some color to him and that he's pleasant for the most part, that he doesn't act like an angst-ridden twelve year old all the time, which is true, but only to an extent.  
"I wanna go home."  
"You can go home, right after you talk to me."  
He reaches up and rubs his eyes thoroughly, still so deathly tired.  
"Why haven't you been sleeping?"  
Dean gives an unenthusiastic, "No time," in return and drops his hands.  
"Why haven't you been eating?"  
He turns to his huge database of lies, and leans forward slightly as he has one ready. "No time." He says it cockier this time, with a faint smirk.  
This woman, whose name Dean couldn't care less about, hardens her expression, knowing that he's lying by how sure of himself he's suddenly gotten. She knows too that she won't get anything out of him—that he's too smart and too stubborn to give it away. "Y'know," she says. "I think it's your attitude that got you all these bruises."  
Dean laughs a bit. "No," he returns smartly, sitting up in his chair. "It's my job."  
She falls silent, simply staring at him.  
"Can I go home now?"

* * *

The old car's engine rumbles faintly as they make their way down a near empty road towards that subpar part of town. Through these dusty and grayish buildings around them the sun is just starting to rise, and they both sit there, Sam behind the wheel and Dean passenger, rubbing their eyes and yawning in silence. Dean got out the second he could, calling his brother around five and literally begging him to get there as fast as he could. He didn't say anything more than that, just a desperate, "get here".  
"So," Sam yawns, glancing over at his brother. "What'd you say?"  
He shrugs slightly in return, not so much tired as stressed, frustrated, ready to get back out there. "Nothing," he says.  
"Nothing?" Sam asks. "Really?"  
Dean sighs exasperatedly. "Yes," he returns. "Really."  
Sam brushes his shaggy hair back with one hand and mimics that heavy sigh. "Why?"  
He doesn't respond, staring out the window and studying this dingy area that he's unfortunately gotten to know so well. As he catches sight of faces he recognizes, he sinks down slightly as if to hide.  
"Dean?"  
He straightens in his seat and looks over.  
"Why didn't you tell them anything?"  
Dean averts his gaze back out the window, so restless at that point that it's almost painful to sit still. "I didn't want to." He returns.  
"You were there to talk to somebody." Sam argues.  
"No," Dean corrects him bitterly. "I was there because I didn't have a choice."  
"Yes you did."  
"No," he insists. "They came up to me and they said, 'you're going whether you like it or not' even though I told them over and over that I–that we–couldn't manage it."  
"Couldn't manage it?"  
He turns back towards his brother. "There's a reason all this is happening, Sam!"  
Sam sighs heavily. "If you'd stop thinking about money for, like, ten seconds-"  
"One of us has to think about it!"  
"And one of us has to care!" They're yelling back and forth, the tension in that small space so heavy that it's almost sickening. "I'm trying to help you!"  
"I never asked for your help!"  
"It doesn't matter! You need-"  
"I don't need your help!" Dean interrupts. "I can take care of myself!"  
"Oh," Sam returns sarcastically. "Clearly."  
"I could if I wasn't so busy taking care of you!"  
"Or sleeping with people you don't know for money!"  
"For you!" He argues. "So that you can survive!"  
"Yeah? And what about you? Selflessness is sweet until you start to look like that!"  
"People pay to look at me," Dean says. "Did you ever think that maybe-"  
"Did you ever think that maybe you should stop?"  
He exhales heavily.  
"I mean, if it's making you so insecure that you can't function-"  
"No," he interrupts. "I'm not stopping."  
"And why is that?"  
"Because we need money, Sam!"  
Sam pulls over to a curb and unlocks the doors abruptly. "If we need it so bad, then go get it."

XX


	11. Chapter 11

_Honestly, this chapter is boring. more within the next 24 hours!_

* * *

_Eleven_

Money is his coverup for attention. Granted, now they really do need money for all these medical bills, but more than money he needs attention. He needs someone to tell him that he's worth something, and he needs someone to smile because of him, even if it is in the form of pleasure. He doesn't do it for money anymore. He doesn't do it because he wants sex or because he's bored with nothing to hunt, he does it now because he wants human contact with new people. He wants to alleviate some of their stress or let them get out their guilty pleasure or something else along those corrupt lines, and for some odd reason, he believes that if he doesn't stop losing weight all of this will be shot to hell, though it's more of the opposite in reality. He didn't say anything to doctor whatever because he doesn't want to gain any weight, to be less appealing, and he didn't stay in the car with Sam because even though this is all much more of a mess than he had ever intended, he needs the attention. He feeds off the attention, and even just that day without it got him on edge. That's why he lied to his brother about needing money, because he wanted to make him angry and he wanted to get thrown out of the car here in this drug store parking lot because he knows people here who always want to give him attention—the younger man who called 911 but wanted more from him, for example. He's found him leaning casually against the brick wall, watching him, and Dean's investing his help mainly because he knows he has a motel room and a shower he can use instead of getting paid. Dean asks him if he can use said shower as he offers more business, and though he's somewhat big and intimidating to someone who feels as awkward and vulnerable and completely out of sorts as Dean, he doesn't question it much. In fact, the only thing he asks is, "before, after, or both?"  
Dean smiles faintly at him and mutters, "after," to which he nods and leads his pretty little toy towards his room.  
They strip down in the humid room and with his still nicotine stained hands, he pushes Dean down gently. Dean looks up at him with big eyes for a moment, watching as he studies the bruises. His eyes drift about Dean's chest and down his arms and on the left he stops and takes hold of it. "You went." He says, his voice still gritty and a little slurred.  
"I did," Dean returns, the touch of skin against his like a dream after what feels like forever without it. "And everything's fine."  
A faint, very faint, smile comes across him.  
"You can do what ever you want."  
He raises his eyebrows and Dean nods. He turns Dean over and he holds onto the lazily made up sheets, wrinkling them with his. "Hold your breath." He says.

xx

very soon, bbz.


	12. Chapter 12

I kept my promise! Here it is.  
XX

* * *

Twelve

Standing in that slightly mildewed shower, looking at the grimy white tiles before him, he tries his hardest not to think about anything. Everything is so heavy, and everything is so stressful, he wishes it would all turn to static. Dean averts his gaze to the wall of the tub, and spends a good twenty seconds studying the bar of soap set atop it. It's the same as the one he has, and the sight of it brings a guilt so heavy that it's almost unbearable. It's enough to make him feel sick, and enough to give him this visual of his brother waiting for him, glancing at the outdated analog clock on the wall and thinking, 'fourteen hours...fifteen hours...'  
He turns off the water and tells himself that he'll fully shower later, that it's not as important as getting 'home' is right now. Dean pulls the curtain and reaches for one of the over bleached towels on the counter beside his clothes. Droplets of lukewarm water start to disappear as they come in contact with the rough, chemical ridden fabric, and after having to pull it tighter than usual around his waist, Dean stares at himself for a second, knowing it's getting worse though the mirror is almost too foggy to see. He starts to contemplate whether or not this is a problem, and then whether or not he should stop, but before he can think about it too much, the creaky door is forces open. Dean scurries away from the violently swinging plank of near rotting wood like a roach, and then stands on the nearly soaked mat before the shower like a deer in headlights, staring at his client with a fear that isn't as much an act anymore. "...hi," he starts awkwardly, then so much unlike himself mentally and physically that it's startling. "I was just-"  
"I'm bringing some people over." He says, nearly a polar opposite of how gentle he was an hour ago.  
"Oh," Dean returns. "Okay, well, I'll be gone in a few-"  
"No," he interrupts. "You're staying."  
"I'm staying." This isn't as much a question as a statement, a timid, out of sorts statement.  
"You're staying," he repeats. "Because I know that you've met my friend here."  
The door opens a little wider, and Dean uncomfortably grips the towel slipping from his shrunken waist. His eyes widen slightly and a brief shot of fear dashes through him.  
"You," a familiar voice starts, accompanied with a near grotesque smile. A pale, bony finger points at him, and as Dean watches in fear and less than find memory, he notices dust under the nail of this finger, dust that he safely assumes isn't dust. "I thought I told you to stop going out around here."  
Dean pauses, shrugging slightly. "Sort of."  
The two men stare at him for a long few seconds, taking in all the physical changes this completely stripped and near terrified figure has underwent so abruptly. "What happened?" This dusty, older man asks with a slight laugh. "You were hot a few days ago."  
Dean shifts uncomfortably as he remembers that he's naked under this thin layer.  
"Aww," he starts in closer, and Dean holds onto his towel tighter, as if that will stop the borderline abuse he knows is next to inevitable at this point. "You're so shy."  
Dean falls completely still as a rough hand touches the side of his ribcage, paralyzed with fear.  
"I guess I'll have to get you back out of your shell."

XX


	13. Chapter 13

You guys, this is the end.

I'm responding to all reviews left on this chapter, so let's talk!

* * *

Thirteen

They leave him exposed on the bed, barely closing the door before running off. He's black and red and blue, drugged and motionless and unclothed. Almost every inch of him that isn't covered by dingy, yellowish-white sheets is covered in bruises, some of them so dark that they're like charcoal. The bends of his arms are the worst, bloody, swollen, and beyond graphically infected after just a few hours. They gave him more and more of what ever drug they happened to have a decent stash of each time it started to wear off, and each time they did, he would be out for half an hour at most, and then when he woke up he would be a little less than half conscious, following with his eyes but never saying anything, just blinking up at his abusers, his molesters, his _clients._ They assumed that he was only in it for the money, and pumped him with a ton more drugs than he could handle before throwing the money at him, dialing the first number in his phone, and leaving him bloody on the sheets.

The number they called happened to be Sam, and even though the call came through around two thirty in the morning, he picked up and managed, somehow, to track the location of this dead line. It was a grimy, yet nicer than theirs, motel room with all but one light turned off and every blanket piled atop the bed. He knew immediately what had happened, and decided that their reason for covering his brother was little more than a sick joke, a play on censorship. He didn't know, though, who they were or how exactly they got Dean into this position, but he could tell by their muffled voices on the phone as they scrambled to get their things and get out that they weren't the smallest guys, that they were big.

And judging by Dean's damage, they were big—huge.

"Hey," he starts, pulling down the sheets off Dean's shoulders and shaking this sticky and near lifeless mess that he's become. "Hey, you need to wake up."

He doesn't respond, so Sam reaches for his hand to check for a pulse. It's faint, but maybe that's because Sam is more focused on the way he holds tightly onto the money in his hand than how his heart is beating.

"Oh my god," he sighs, somewhat disappointed to see where Dean's interest remains. Here he is nearly bordering on permanent trauma and all he cares about is this crumpled up and red-splotched paper. "This is insane." He starts to tug at Dean's fingers, to pry them open and take the money from him, but the harder he tugs the harder Dean squeezes, and the more he defensively comes to.

"Don' take it." He slurs, his voice breathy and faded. Sam pauses and looks at him, seeing how dull and faded those usually so vibrant green eyes have gotten. His pupils are blown, and though he's essentially gone at this point, he's got this look of desperation that Sam never wanted to see. "Sammy, please don' take it."

"You have to let go." Sam tells him, his attempt at masking his emotion translucent. "This isn't what you need right now."

Dean breathes in deep, and that breath shakes horrendously. "I worked so hard, Sammy."

"I know you did," he returns, one hand still holding Dean's while the other holds his chin steady so that they don't break eye contact. "But right now you need to let go."

"I don' wanna."

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Because we have to leave."

Dean looks over at his hand as he breathes unsteadily in and out. "What are we supposed to do after this?"

Sam turns his brother back towards him. "After what, Dean?"

"After we leave."

He pauses, watching Dean for a good thirty seconds. "After we leave," he says finally. "We're gonna forget that any of this ever happened."

XX


End file.
